


Digging to Death

by JantoJones



Series: Modest Briefings (The 2nd 100) [36]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 11:10:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17744819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Illya is the prisoner of Thrush





	Digging to Death

“Dig!” Snapped Greg Goodman; urging his captive to speed up his task.

If he hadn’t been almost at the point of physical collapse, Illya Kuryakin would have rolled his eyes. To him, the whole situation bordered on the ridiculous. However, that was Thrush for you. The man who was holding a pistol on him, could have ended his life at any given time. However, for reasons he had never been able to fathom, Thrush seemed to have a deep love of theatrics.

Illya had been a prisoner of Goodman’s for two days, and had endured many torments and tortures. Despite the various agonies, Illya had refused to give anything over, and the Thrush quickly lost patience. He had ordered two guards to cuff Illya’s hands in front of him and drag him outside into the grounds of the compound. The Russian was then handed a spade and instructed to dig his own grave. Even though the thought of dying this way terrified him, he couldn’t help but be struck by the absurdity of it. It was like something from a movie.

For several hours, Illya dug into the sun-baked ground. Digging a large hole always took longer than people assumed it would, and being hampered by cuffs wasn’t helping matters.

“Dig!” Goodman repeated.

Illya had slowed down, partially through exhaustion, and partially because he could see he was almost finished. A small part of him briefly wondered if he could use the spade as a weapon, but he dismissed the idea. He had a pistol and two rifles pointing at him, so wouldn’t stand a chance. He had spent his whole life trying to survive, and he wasn’t about to give it up so easily just yet. With no other options presenting themselves, Illya had no other choice than to keep digging.

“Stop!” Goodman commanded. “I reckon that’s big enough. It would seem that being a smaller man has its drawbacks.”

Illya thrust the spade away with as much force as he could muster, which was not very much at all.

“Last chance to talk, Kuryakin,” Goodman said as he sipped on a cool glass of water which had been brought out to him.

The Russian’s parched tongue tried to salivate but, as he was almost at the point of dehydration, nothing happened.

“I have nothing to say,” he rasped.

“Fair enough.”

Although he’d been half expecting he shot, Illya was still surprised when the bullet entered his shoulder. He dropped to his knees with a grunt, whereupon Goodman strode over and kicked him into his grave.

“I hope you have made your peace with your maker,” the Thrush stated, before instructing the guards to fill the hole.

Pain and exhaustion filled Illya’s mind with a pink fog and, in spite of his best efforts, he was unable to muster the strength to help himself. As dirt began to rain down on him, he finally accepted that his death had arrived. He had always known it would come early but, foolishly, he’d sometimes allowed himself to believe otherwise.

Above him, the sound of multiple weapons being fired filled the air. Illya barely noticed. Nor did he register the weight of the body of Greg Goodman landing on top of him. A short while later the weight disappeared and Illya felt several hands grabbing hold of him and lifting him up. With a stupendous effort, he opened his eyes and saw the worried face of his partner.

“Where have you been?” he croaked.

“I come all this way, pluck you from your own grave, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Spasiba,” Illya whispered, before allowing blessed darkness to claim him for a while.

Napoleon Solo grinned. Illya wasn’t in a good way, but it could have been much worse. Besides, if he had retained the ability to be snarky, then all would be well.


End file.
